Read Online Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 20 by Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant - Free Book Online
Authors: Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant
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some color back into my wardrobe, but she dismissed me with a wave of her hand and walked away. After she fixed herself supper and disappeared into her own room, I settled onto the couch again with MQR's papers and waited, occasionally looking down to admire my shirt.
When she arrived at a little past midnight—I was dozing on the couch when she knocked—I tried to embrace her on the porch. I wanted to take her there, wordlessly and roughly, to prove that she wanted me and not my great-grandfather's cabinet. But she pushed me away and went to the back bedroom, pausing at the hallway door to look over her shoulder at me and smile. She had never smiled at me before, and the expression was strange on her pale, blank face. I hurried after her.
That night was different from the previous two. She wore a simple brown slip instead of her black skirt and white Oxford, and when I caught up to her she turned to face me and pulled the slip over her head, revealing her pale nakedness. She was slender and boyish in build, narrow-hipped and hairless, though her belly was oddly distended. She waited for me to unlock the cabinet, then knelt and opened the cupboard containing the green heron eggs. While she held one of the hollow shells to her breast, I disrobed and took her from behind, at last in command. She held the egg gently no matter how roughly I applied myself, and she offered it to me over her shoulder. I kissed the egg, and her fingers, and the soft nape of her neck. She leaned forward, let out a cry that was sharp and shrill and only barely human, then pushed me away.
I fell onto my heels and watched her place the heron egg back into its cupboard. Her eyes were solid black disks when she bent down to kiss my forehead, and before I could speak she threw open the window and climbed out into the rain, leaving her dress behind.
In the morning I prepared a breakfast feast for my wife: thick slabs of toast smeared with strawberry jam, soft-boiled eggs, spicy Italian sausages fried until the edges were crisp black. She squinted at me and took just the toast. I ate the eggs and sausage and made more toast, but I was still hungry and stopped for donuts on my way to work.
At work that day I was unusually productive, putting the finishing touches on projects that had languished for weeks and getting a good start on work I had delayed for months. I found the previous day's sketches and put them in my bottom drawer, face down. When I left in the evening, it was with a heart full of pride, and the feeling I had earned whatever pleasure might visit that night.
But when I came home, the door to the back bedroom was open and boxes filled the hallway. I hurried down the hall, but I knew what I would find. My wife was kneeling on the floor, in the spot where the oologist's cabinet had stood, sorting shoes and dishes into cardboard boxes. She heard me stop at the door, and she looked up and smiled with a dramatic gesture at the empty space at the back of the room: “Gone."
"Gone where?” I asked.
"Does it matter? Gone, gone for good.” The she reached into her pocket and took out a business card the color of old vellum. “A collector, in Germany. The movers carted it away this afternoon. And the rest of this—this junk—is going, too."
I took the card, with its dense Teutonic lettering and strange phone number, and hoped it would reveal my lover's name: Giselle, Jarvia, Marlena, Serilda. But it was a man's name, Roderick, from the dark North Sea city of Hamburg.
The movers had not taken the bundle of papers I'd left on the porch, and that night I sat on the steel couch looking at MQR's spindly script without reading the words. When she came again, would she smile over her shoulder as she doffed her dress, would she slip into the newly emptied room and evaporate like a ghost under halogen lamps? Would she still offer herself to me, the owner of a Bauhaus chair, without my magical box of air?
The rain was still falling—it seemed to
When she arrived at a little past midnight—I was dozing on the couch when she knocked—I tried to embrace her on the porch. I wanted to take her there, wordlessly and roughly, to prove that she wanted me and not my great-grandfather's cabinet. But she pushed me away and went to the back bedroom, pausing at the hallway door to look over her shoulder at me and smile. She had never smiled at me before, and the expression was strange on her pale, blank face. I hurried after her.
That night was different from the previous two. She wore a simple brown slip instead of her black skirt and white Oxford, and when I caught up to her she turned to face me and pulled the slip over her head, revealing her pale nakedness. She was slender and boyish in build, narrow-hipped and hairless, though her belly was oddly distended. She waited for me to unlock the cabinet, then knelt and opened the cupboard containing the green heron eggs. While she held one of the hollow shells to her breast, I disrobed and took her from behind, at last in command. She held the egg gently no matter how roughly I applied myself, and she offered it to me over her shoulder. I kissed the egg, and her fingers, and the soft nape of her neck. She leaned forward, let out a cry that was sharp and shrill and only barely human, then pushed me away.
I fell onto my heels and watched her place the heron egg back into its cupboard. Her eyes were solid black disks when she bent down to kiss my forehead, and before I could speak she threw open the window and climbed out into the rain, leaving her dress behind.
In the morning I prepared a breakfast feast for my wife: thick slabs of toast smeared with strawberry jam, soft-boiled eggs, spicy Italian sausages fried until the edges were crisp black. She squinted at me and took just the toast. I ate the eggs and sausage and made more toast, but I was still hungry and stopped for donuts on my way to work.
At work that day I was unusually productive, putting the finishing touches on projects that had languished for weeks and getting a good start on work I had delayed for months. I found the previous day's sketches and put them in my bottom drawer, face down. When I left in the evening, it was with a heart full of pride, and the feeling I had earned whatever pleasure might visit that night.
But when I came home, the door to the back bedroom was open and boxes filled the hallway. I hurried down the hall, but I knew what I would find. My wife was kneeling on the floor, in the spot where the oologist's cabinet had stood, sorting shoes and dishes into cardboard boxes. She heard me stop at the door, and she looked up and smiled with a dramatic gesture at the empty space at the back of the room: “Gone."
"Gone where?” I asked.
"Does it matter? Gone, gone for good.” The she reached into her pocket and took out a business card the color of old vellum. “A collector, in Germany. The movers carted it away this afternoon. And the rest of this—this junk—is going, too."
I took the card, with its dense Teutonic lettering and strange phone number, and hoped it would reveal my lover's name: Giselle, Jarvia, Marlena, Serilda. But it was a man's name, Roderick, from the dark North Sea city of Hamburg.
The movers had not taken the bundle of papers I'd left on the porch, and that night I sat on the steel couch looking at MQR's spindly script without reading the words. When she came again, would she smile over her shoulder as she doffed her dress, would she slip into the newly emptied room and evaporate like a ghost under halogen lamps? Would she still offer herself to me, the owner of a Bauhaus chair, without my magical box of air?
The rain was still falling—it seemed to
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